REDs Under the Beds
by Mentalist
Summary: Witness the deterioration of the RED team when their beloved supplies don't arrive one fateful day. Guaranteed 107% more shenanigans than the next leading fanfic.
1. Prologue

REDs Under The Beds – A Team Fortress 2 Fanfic

**I very much like to believe that I own the Team Fortress 2 characters, but Valve's lawyers don't agree with me...**

**As you may notice, I chose not to write the character's voices in Accent. This is partly because I don't trust myself to write, for example, a Scottish accent, and partly because your imaginations are perfectly capable of supplying them yourselves!**

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Somewhere in the world, the Announcer lit a victory cigarette. It was a moot point, since she would have lit one whether they won or lost. Nor could the REDs see her, so they didn't know she was having one. But the point was that the REDs would commence their victory celebrations. Ceasefire had officially begun.

These parties were highly destructive affairs. If they didn't end up with alcohol spilled over the computer terminals, darts and bits of broken glass stuck in the world maps on the walls, and at least two skulls bruised or smashed in, they didn't consider the event to deserve the moniker of 'party'.

Several hours in, the Sniper had somehow progressed from a couple of beers to leaning heavily against Truckie and belting out "Waltzing Matilda" at the top of his lungs. The Engineer was playing acoustic guitar with understandable difficulty, and the Pyro was leaping around like a prawn on a hot barbie, playing air guitar on his axe. The others had decided to have another one of their "anthem wars" with him, each singing their own country's anthem. The Heavy sang an off-key rendition of the Russian Anthem; the Demo slurred "Flower of Scotland"; and the Soldier was determinedly screaming the lyrics of "Star Spangled Banner" in a monotone.

The Medic chimed in with "Das Deutschlandlied" until the Soldier launched himself at his neck, ranting about krauts. As far as he was concerned, anyone who preferred something that sounded like a bowel disorder (re: bratwurst) over a good old artery clogging American goddamn cheeseburger couldn't be trusted.

The Spy was sitting a safe distance away with a glass of some kind of whiskey, shuffling a deck of cards in each hand and looking incredibly bored at the wrestling match going on. He already knew that "Le Marsellaise" was the catchiest, most rousing, and best anthem of any country, so there was no need to treat these philistines to it.

The Soldier suddenly collapsed onto the floor, inciting bouts of laughter from everyone in the room. The Sniper squinted at him, and then noticed the large hypodermic syringe sticking out of his back.

"What did you do to him?"

"I injected him with a potent paralytic," said the Medic, who was grinning vindictively.

The Sniper was silent for a few seconds. "Won't that stop his breathing and all?" He had experience with this kind of thing, after all – namely, he tipped his arrows with that kind of stuff.

"That's possible, ja."

"As much as I wish you could permanently put the Soldier to sleep, I think you oughta keep him alive for now, mate," Sniper said firmly.

The Medic looked annoyed, but conceded. "Alright, help me drag him to the infirmary," he said reluctantly. They grasped the bulky body, and dragging it around the body of the snoring Scout and a pyramid of empty beer bottles, they managed to the Soldier onto a bunk in the infirmary.

_Ow, my head. Was that me just singing in an off-key voice ten minutes ago? I think I'll call it a night._ The Sniper tipped his hat and left.

* * *

The Sniper dragged himself out of bed. Whether or not he had a hangover didn't change his early waking time at all. He blearily brushed his teeth, and then ran half a can's worth of Ritzy Rick's Hair Fixative through his disheveled bed hair. He went downstairs and put some decaf in the percolator.

One by one the others started trickling into the kitchen, attracted by the smell of the coffee, and they started fixing themselves breakfast. The hung over Scout dropped a dangerous amount of aspirin tablets into his can of Bonk! Atomic Energy Drink, which promptly fizzed all over the table.

The only person missing was the Demo, and he'd probably slumber until the bedtime for everyone else.

"Hey Digger, glad to see you fresh off the ventilator," said the Sniper to the Soldier, who'd just walked in. _And glad to see that the Doc's drunken medicinal treatment didn't make you worse._ The Soldier glared fiercely at the Medic, but sat a safe distance away. "Traitor," he whispered. The Medic just flipped him the bird when he wasn't looking.

Damn Soldier could barely cooperate with the Medic most of the time. His severe WWII psychosis/PTSD made his eyelid twitch every time he even heard a German accented word come from the Medic's mouth. Surprisingly, he'd been completely oblivious to the whole subsequent "Reds under the beds" Commie scare, and he was perfectly matey with the Heavy. The Sniper found his mind drifting to what the Vietnam War equivalent could be – "Chinks under the sinks"? That'd be a good slogan. He suppressed a chuckle at his stupid thoughts.

"What's the plan for today?" asked the Engineer.

"The monthly supply delivery is arriving in a bit. Someone will have to sit up at the delivery bay to get it. Other than that, sit back and wait for the usual word from the Announcer," said the Sniper. He avoided looking directly at everyone else, opting instead to take a sip of his coffee. Watching the blokes shoveling food into their mouths with reckless abandon made him feel physically ill.

"Why can't we get a holiday for once, jeez," said the Scout. "I miss the fine Boston chicks."

"Mm mmf mmf mmfmm," said the Pyro gleefully.

"You're just jealous because your ma hasn't got time for you since she's been seeing me," he retorted. The rest of the conversation was the usual banter.

The Engie rushed off after brekkie to set up his sentries and dispensers. It was a ceasefire, sure, but you were allowed to set up the toys. As long as the BLUs weren't stupid enough to set foot in RED's base, it was good and dandy.

The Heavy lumbered off, muttering about giving Sasha a bath.

The Soldier stomped away, no doubt to the Battle Room to push plastic figures around a map and devise a couple hundred more permutations for the next battle's strategy.

"Well, I have nothing to do today. How dull," said the Medic to the almost empty room. "Sniper, I have a fine idea for you. Our talented Engineer has a schematic for a bionic sniper eye…and I am a talented surgeon, if I do say so myself. The procedure would only take a few hours…"

"No thanks. How about you wait for the delivery truck, there's a good bloke."

The Medic sighed, still wistfully gazing at the Aussie, no doubt imagining a lump of metal and wiring in the place of his eye. "Very well. I need the walk anyway."

"Take Scout as well, he's full of energy, he could use a walk too."

"You mean a babysitter," the Medic muttered below his breath.

"We really should confiscate his Bonk! on ceasefire days," the Spy said, rolling his eyes.

"Hey! No one touches my Bonk! Unless you want a fistful of my…fists, buddy."

Deciding he had to be the responsible one, the Sniper didn't ask the Pyro to incinerate all of the garbage that was lying around the Communications Room, but went around methodically picking everything up. _Ugh._ Afterwards, he sat down at one of those computer terminals, put his feet up, and read a book. He was the official recipient of radio messages, because he didn't trust the others to take messages.

The Scout's voice started issuing from their radio. "Hey Snipes, you there pal? How much longer this gonna take? I've been to morgues that were more freakin' active than this place."

The Sniper pressed the button to reply and glanced at his wristwatch. "Should be here around this time. Just sit tight for a bit. It usually comes within the half hour."

"Aww, man. I'm bored. The Doc is boring. I wanna…" The Sniper muted before he could hear the rest.

Time slipped away. He was still reading when a harsh voice came from the loudspeaker. "Requesting communications with RED base. Requesting communications with RED base." The Sniper put down _Saxton Hale's 50 Ways To Pop A Human Head_, changed the channel, andpressed the button. "This is RED Sniper, say your message, over."

"This is a mandatory protocol informing you of a power struggle contingency that has occurred within the corporate structure of Reliable Excavators & Demolitions Limited. You are to be advised to continue the ceasefire until further orders."

That was a mouthful to mull around the noggin – Sniper took a moment to digest what she said. "So this 'power struggle' thing won't affect us, then?"

"Our interim leader has ordered to freeze external support and logistics to your base. Therefore the delivery truck that was scheduled for tomorrow has been cancelled until further notice."

"Do you know how long that'll be?"

"That's for us to know and you to shut your mouth about, minion," barked the ever charming Announcer.

The Sniper was thinking that he should protest. To burst out in "but"s and "you can't"s. However, he knew that they had plenty of food, medical kits, arms, and other supplies stored up. And he was a sensible guy. There was no need to lose his head over this.

"Alright. Sniper out."

He looked at his watch. Forty five minutes had passed. He changed the frequency once more and pressed the button. "Scout, just come back to base."

"I'd already freakin' left half an hour ago, pal."

* * *

"_Whaaat? _But my new Bonk! was supposed to come today!"

"You mean your monthly postcard from your mommy."

"Shut up."

"Never mind the pansy soda, what about my Scrumpy!"

The whole team was gathered in the Communications Room now, and the Sniper had just spilled the news to them. None of them were taking it very well.

"Do the BLUs know about the situation?" asked the Engineer.

"Oh yeah, who says those freakin' BLUs won't come over here and try to bust our ass if they know RED's in the shit?" said the Scout.

Everyone else started talking at once. The Spy cleared his throat. "I don't think the BLU Command would do that. After all, it would not do to anger the new RED leader once they have sorted out this mess."

_Yes, we should sit tight. The Spy's got his head screwed on right, even if he is a wanker,_ thought the Sniper. He calmly voiced that thought (apart from the wanker bit). Predictably, the Scout let out a howl of protest.

"Butbutbut my Bonk!"

"Well you'll just have to ration that out for the rest of the time, son!" barked the Soldier. "In dire situations a man must do whatever it takes to survive! I'm almost positive Sun Tzu said that!" _The Soldier probably has 'WWSZD' engraved on his dog tag_, the Sniper wryly thought.

"But I have none left, moron! I plan out my drinkin' schedule around those monthly deliveries."

"I don't like the smell of this situation neither, but a trooper must put his duty above everything else. So stand down you filthy cockroach, you dirt-crawling worm!"

"Who the hell you callin' worm –"

"Scout, Soldier, break it up!" yelled the Sniper. "Just...go and distract yourself for a while. How about you go hit yourself some baseballs in the delivery bay?"

"I've already hit all my balls into the desert," the Scout griped, but he stomped out of the room.

_Chrissakes. It wouldn't be Team RED if they weren't chucking a wobbly over the stupidest things._ The Engie noticed his annoyed expression and shrugged. "As usual, you're welcome to my dispensers. Plenty of metal, ammo and healing juice. And I'm the guy who threw out the Scout's baseballs. My sentries are NOT to be used as baseball launchers."


	2. Day 1

**Ever noticed how in the fanfic world, 90% of interesting events occur during ceasefire? The other 10% occur either during battles or in the team's showers. Don't ask.**

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**Day One**

"_Monday morning feels so bad, everybody seems to nag me..."_

Breakfast was a sullen affair. First, the Engineer noticed that all of their sugar and yeast was mysteriously missing, and they managed to wrestle it away from the sobbing Demoman who was almost about the empty it into the bathtub in an attempt to brew some bootleg moonshine. ("You moron, you're supposed to make that stuff at night, that's why they call it _moon_shine," said the Scout helpfully).

It did not end well. Let's just say that it ended with the Demo locking himself in his room and the ominous sounds of furniture smashing against the walls. "Sobriety is horrible!" he bawled. "No one understands meeeee!"

"Takes away a civilised man's appetite," frowned the Spy, who was smoking his third cigarette this morning.

The Scout couldn't stop annoying the hell out of everyone else on top of that. "I'm gonna run all the way to town and get some Bonk! Just stop me, I dare you."

The Sniper rolled his eyes. "You do that mate. Nearest town s'only about 100 klicks away. We're in here for the long haul." _Heh. It's almost as if the Companies don't want anyone to bail on them. Imagine that._

"Awright, jeez. Who the hell designed this place anyway!? Hey Hard Hat, you can build teleporters right?"

"Son, I don't see how that's going to help, seeing as I don't have a teleporter exit in town."

"What? But I always thought you secretly had one! And the entrance was like, in your closet…"

"How about the bushranger?" said Spy. "Perhaps he can drive you in his camper van."

"Fat chance, Escargot. She's all out of petrol." The Sniper gave the Spy a dirty look. _Besides, like I'm going to let Scout anywhere near Vanessa._

"C'mon man, you gotta ask the Announcer when we'll get the goods. Please."

"I'm not going to do something starkers like that. If you want to do it yourself mate, go right ahead."

The Scout disappeared the nanosecond he heard 'do it yourself'. He returned 23.6 seconds later, looking thoroughly defeated and annoyed. "Insolence my ass," he was grumbling to himself. _Yep, he'd gotten an earbashing from the Announcer all right. Silly little bugger._

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The Sniper returned to the battlements after brekkie to find the Scout holding his sniper rifle up, peering down the scope.

"Oi!" He strode up and yanked his rifle away from the boy, who almost toppled. "What in the bleeding hell are you doing?"

"I was looking to see what the BLUs are doing," he whined. "Bet that bastard Scout over there has some Bonk."

"Well you could just use the binoculars, couldn't you, bub?" he replied, thrusting them at the Scout. "But you're not going to see anything unless you have x-ray vision." It was true. The entire compound was as silent as a freshly napalmed village.

"Now bugger off, you gormless little spaz. Go spy on Truckie or something." The Scout rushed off pressing the binoculars to his eyes. _Eh. Not my problem if the idiot barges into a wall and gives himself two black eyes._

The highlight of lunch was catching the Demo in the act of trying to steal away with their jars of metho. The Sniper locked them away in the cupboard and chucked the key down the toilet. And hoped the Demo wasn't smart enough to bribe the Frenchie to pick the lock for him.


	3. Day 2

**Splitting infinitives since 2009 (tm).**

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**Day Two**

"_Coming Tuesday I feel better, even my old man looks good..."_

The Medic, the Heavy, and the Spy were gathered in the kitchen, staring at the Scout in morbid fascination. The Scout was staggering around like the Demoman on one of his more drunken days, clutching a large jar.

"I'm gonna do it! I'm really gonna do it!"

The Spy nudged the Heavy with his elbow and murmured, "Perhaps you should stop him."

"You do realise he drinks _de_caf? There's no caffeine in that," laughed the Medic.

The Scout's eyes were wide open and tinged with insanity. A bit of foam was even oozing out the corner of his mouth. He tipped the jar towards his mouth. "Down the hatch! Wooooooo!"

Before he could drink the vile stuff, the Heavy heeded the Spy's words and hefted the Scout up by his shirt. "Bad Scout. Don't touch Sniper's things."

Unfortunately, the jar chose to slip free from Scout's fingers at that moment. Everyone scrambled back in a panic as, in what seemed like slow motion, a wave of Jarate washed across the floor. It coated everything in a 5 metre radius. Somehow, those jars held a lot more than they looked.

It was funny to witness the individual reactions. The Medic laughed maniacally. "Oh, I've seen worse, believe me!" The Heavy uttered a roar of disgust and started dancing around trying to shake it off his shoes. The Scout continued to flail around in the big man's hands like a fish on a hook - "Let me down, meatface!"

Needless to say, the Spy emitted a girlish squeal and dived out of the way. He attempted to pick himself up with dignity and inspected what damage there was to his suit.

"Can't you do anything about him, Doctor? Otherwise I'm going to do something about him myself," he said past teeth that were clamped down angrily on a fresh cigarette.

"He appears to be in the throes of a withdrawal induced psychotic break…"

"Great diagnosis. I see where the medical degree comes in handy."

"I am not a doctor of the psyche! The only measure I can prescribe is to strap him down to a bed until he, ah, detoxes. Perhaps this will give me a chance to use the methods of relaxation therapy that I have been devising…" The Medic stared into the middle distance. The Spy thought about what these "methods" might entail and smirked. This would be punishment enough for the Scout.

He told the Heavy to carry the Scout into the infirmary. The Medic scuttled behind them, chastising the Scout. "No more isotopes for you, dummkopf, or I will sic the Soldier on you."

The Spy thought about telling the Sniper about what had happened. But he decided against it for now. He flicked away his old cigarette and lit a new one. It was only day two of the ceasefire, for heaven's sake, and he didn't crack that fast.

For now, he tapped his cloaking watch and made himself scarce. Someone else could clean up the mess.

* * *

The Heavy returned to the kitchen. Ignoring the slippery yellow floor he made a beeline for the fridge. Food was always the number one priority. He deserved a sandvich after a hard minute's work being ordered around by the others. He opened the freezer and took out the last bread loaf.

There were only two bread slices left, and they were the _end_ bits.

A bloodcurdling scream of rage rattled the base. Dust and bits of plaster rained from the ceiling. The Sniper could hear it all the way from the battlements. "Strewth. What's happened this time?"

His heart almost stopped when he entered the kitchen and noticed what was covering the floors and furniture. And in the middle of it all was a raging Heavy. A raging Heavy who had the fridge suspended over his head and looked as if he was going to send it crashing into the wall or someone's head.

"Mate...mate...easy there..."

"RAAAAAAAAWR!"

"MATE!"

The Heavy blinked at the Sniper, noticing him for the first time. "Put that fridge down for me, will you, and tell me what your issue is." _And I'll give you a tissue. Oh, that is harsh, me._

The Heavy carefully set the fridge down again. "No sandvich left." _Ohh. His sangers._ He looked so wretched that the Sniper almost felt sorry for him. Just like staring into the face of a child who'd scraped his knee. Then the Sniper remembered that he didn't like children.

"Well...go see the Doc, alright? He can cheer you up." _And put you on a sedative, I hope._

It was the wrong thing to say. The Heavy started sniffling. "Don't...don't cry...what's wrong?" said the Sniper, trying to sound as sympathetic as possible. _For Pete's sake. Why do I have to play the shrink?_

"Doktor told me to go away. He is mean." _That means he must be busy. I am getting a picture of what happened here now. A horrible, horrible mental picture._

"Look..." The Sniper had an idea and hefted the man's minigun into his arms. "Sasha still loves you, okay? It's going to be all right, sport."

"Sasha!" bawled the Heavy, tears leaking out of his eyes as he cuddled the gun. He waddled back to his room, with gentle encouragement from the Sniper that he should have a bit of a lie down and he would feel better.

The Sniper took up a mop and sighed. His only consolation was that no one had touched his 'Number Two' jars.

* * *

The Demoman looked up when the door to their room opened (why wasn't there any locks in this place? Couldn't a pissy young girl...er, man, get any privacy around here?), and he snatched up a chunky book, ready to lob at the next person to walk in and disturb his tantrum. He hastily lowered it when he spotted that it was the mountainous man with the minigun. He sighed and flopped back down onto his pillow instead. Life was just not worth living.


	4. Day 3

**Don't worry; I have an official Artistic License from the Commonwealth Fanfiction Licensing Board. It's good for a lifetime.**

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**Day Three**

"_Wednesday just don't go..."_

The Pyro balked at the lunch set before him. More ration packs. RED was notorious for stocking up their bases with five years worth of ration surplus they'd bought from the military, and the Pyro was sick of it. Having run out of fresh food, it was rations now for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The rations were like gravy soup with a few tidbits of questionable meat floating in it. Absolutely cloying.

The Soldier was tucking in with gusto. "Eat up!" he bade the Pyro. "Got to keep your strength up for the onslaught!" According to the Soldier, there was always an imminent onslaught. He was cheerfully spooning the gravy out of his helmet. _Stark raving._

The table was quiet with the Medic, the Scout, and the Demoman missing. The Spy was absent – he'd muttered something about this peasant fare not being good enough for a cordon bleu chef, and stalked out of the room. The Heavy, Engineer, and Sniper all looked varying degrees of upset, and the Pyro didn't ask.

The Pyro groaned, went to the fridge, and opened it hopefully for the umpteenth time. There was really no point, as he knew there was nothing in there since he'd opened it ten minutes ago, but maybe something palatable had materialised during that time. He stuck one of his gloved hands into the fridge and started rummaging around in the back of it.

His hand brushed against something. Excited, he grabbed the something. It was a forgotten sandwich, still wrapped in plastic. He wondered whether he should eat it. The Heavy would be furious if he found out. But he was feeling fed up and a little evil today. He giggled to himself and quietly slipped his newfound treasure in a pocket of his asbestos suit.

"Can you stop letting the cold air out of the fridge, mate?" sighed the Sniper. The Pyro sheepishly shut the door and scurried away.

He gingerly unwrapped the sandwich back in his room, ripped a tiny piece off it, and popped it into his mouth. It was damn good! Bread was a nice change. He ravenously gulped down the rest of the sandwich.

What should he do now? His mind, of course, immediately jumped to thoughts of burning things. Fire, delicious fire. He didn't have anything to burn though. Hey – with the Scout strapped to a bed, he could sneak into his room and finally requisition those awesomely flammable magazines that he read. Pyro giggled again. It was his lucky day.

The magazines were well hidden, but he found them in the end. He took the stack to the delivery bay. "Mmf mmmm mff mmmf," he said solemnly. Then he sent a steady stream of fire onto it. The wind sent a flurry of embers gusting into the sky. He cackled.

Suddenly he felt a feeling quite contrary to what he normally felt when burning things. He felt sick.

"What's burning over here? Pyro? Hey, you okay?" The Engineer rushed in and grabbed the Pyro, who was swaying on the spot. "Ugh. We better take you to the Doc." Leaning slightly away from the Pyro, he guided him to the infirmary.

The Medic hastily shoved a couple of magazines with...anatomical diagrams on them, into a desk drawer labelled "MEDICAL JOURNALS. HIGHLY BORING. DO NOT READ". He ground his teeth in frustration.

"Mein Gott! We are not even fighting the BLUs yet we're having even more causalities! Can you Schweinehunds kindly stop hurting yourselves for at least ten minutes? Soon I will be having to ask RED Command for overtime pay."

"Welcome to party central, buddy," said the Scout, in a voice that was geared to give no doubt as to his immense state of boredom. "C'mon Doc, loosen the straps just a teeny weeny bit?"

"Quiet and wait your turn!" snapped the Medic. ("Why you gotta bum a guy out," the Scout grumbled). "Now, lie on the bed, Pyro. You need some air." He grasped the Pyro's mask and tried to pull it off. The Pyro did not want to cooperate.

"Mmk mff!"

"Let go! You're never going to get cured this way!"

For half a minute, there was a comical tug of war. The Scout was sent into uncontrollable spasms of laughter. The Medic finally overpowered the Pyro and was sent sprawling back with a dripping mask in his hands. "Oh, for times like these I thank Apollo for inventing rubber gloves..."

"He's burned all over," gasped the Engie.

"He's a _chink_," noted Scout.

The Pyro managed a sardonic grin in the burned mask that was his face. "And all you whiteys look the same to me. I'm Japanese, morons." His English was fine, albeit heavily accented. His eyes glittered with a light almost creepy as the glass eyes in his real mask.

"Alright man, you're real scarier in the flesh so I, uh, will leave you to your devices..." the Scout whispered.

The Pyro responded with a fresh bout of retching. The Medic quickly shoved a bedpan in front of him which, unfortunately, only exacerbated the firebug's nausea. The Engie decided to take this as the cue to leave.

"Help me, don't leave! Doc Frankenstein won't let me out of this bed."

"Your problem now," echoed the Engineer's voice from the corridor.

The Medic stabbed a lethal looking needle into the Scout's leg.

"Can you feel the Schadenfreude?" he said.

* * *

The news about the Pyro actually sparked up a lively conversation at the dinner table for once. The Sniper felt like he was sitting in a room of pure _stupid_.

"Just what we need, more Commies and Nazis," the Soldier grumbled.

"The Japanese are neither," said the Engie, but for the good it did, it was probably better to keep his mouth shut. This only incited the Soldier to give him the weekly earbashing about the evils of being 'a scum-ridden member of the intelligentsia'.

"Japan is a state of Australia, ja?" said the Medic. Sniper mentally facepalmed. He only expected such ignorance when the Scout was with them.

"No, mate, they're overseas from us. Dunno much about the Japs anyway. Apart from them putting their subs all over Australia in double you double you two. Don't really keep up with the politics." Sniper wasn't a patriotic person, really. It was funny to hear 'us' coming out of his mouth. Or even hear himself talk about Australia, a country far removed from this strange desert base.

"Did you say World War-"

"Oh Gott, he said it," the Medic groaned. "He said the W-word."

"-Two?" the Soldier finished, sitting up straighter in his chair.

For some reason, everyone decided that they'd finished with their meals. And they didn't want to stay for dessert.


	5. Day 4

**Day Four**

"_Thursday goes too slow..."_

It was pissing down. The Sniper gloomily gazed out from the battlements, watching the reddish dirt convert into reddish mud. The wind blew into him and splattered his sunnies with rain, but he didn't feel like moving away. Why not catch pneumonia? With two men in the infirmary, a sulky Heavy, a virtually incapacitated Demoman, and the kitchen smelling pungently like his own...you know what, he was in a bloody bad mood.

The Spy suddenly uncloaked next to him. "What do you want?" the Sniper said on cue, still staring into the rain. His voice was a bit rougher than he meant it to be.

"We need to have a talk."

"Alright, shoot."

"Let's talk somewhere a little less…wet?" The Sniper shrugged indifferently, and followed the Spy to his room. They sat down at the Spy's nice polished mahogany table, and the spook reached underneath it and brought out a bottle of scotch whiskey and two glasses. The Sniper noticed he had a black eye, badly dabbed with makeup concealer. He didn't ask.

"You want one?"

"Why not. Been stealing from the Demo, have we?"

"You are dreaming. I do not drink his nasty brand. _This_ excellent drink would be wasted on that filthy Scotsman." He downed the glass in one gulp. The Sniper noticed the Spy was giving off the overpowering scent of peppermint. He raised an eyebrow.

"Let me guess. You ran out of your nasty durries. So now you are starting to agree with the others and want to run over to BLU base and get some refills?"

The Spy forlornly fiddled with his empty cigarette case slash disguise kit. "It's only useful for the inbuilt crab walking kit now, and that's pretty much useless," he muttered. "Not worth half that 47 cents..."

The Sniper sipped a bit of his scotch. "Get to the point."

The Spy unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it into his mouth. For some reason it just didn't give off the vibe of pure _cool_ he emanated from his cigarette smoking.

"The men and I think it would be a good idea if we held a little...stealth raid on the BLU base. Everyone is fed up with the state of things. The Demo keeps me awake at night, the Medic is crazy, the Heavy is...high strung -"_Well, now I've got an explanation for the eye._ "- BLU is swimming in luxury things, so what's the harm in taking a little of it without firing any bullets?"

"That's out of the question. You're just asking for trouble from the Company."

"And democracy strikes again. Nothing can be accomplished without the endorsement of our totalitarian Sniper."

"Why are you even asking? I thought you spooks just come and go as you please."

"Better than 'bludging' around in the battlements all day pretending to be useful."

"Look, just be straight with me, will you?"

The Spy sighed exaggeratedly. He took out a lacy handkerchief, and spat out his gum. "As much as I hate to acknowledge it, I'm part of a team. I have the team's best interests close to my heart. Besides, a job like this would be really helpful with another man or two. I'm good, but not that good."

"I can understand your predicament, but I'm just doing my job too, and that's to abide by the ceasefire."

"Fine. Thank you for hearing me out. You know where the exit is, I presume?"

The Sniper opened his mouth to say something – he was not going to let the Spy get the last word in – when he was interrupted.

"Alert," blared the intercom system suddenly. "Report to Communications Room for new instructions. Report to Communications Room for new instructions."

"Absolutely grouse," cheered the Sniper, hurrying out the door without a second glance at the Frenchman.

The Spy scratched his head, wondering why the Sniper was waxing ornithology, and went out after him.

* * *

"Next battle tomorrow at 0900 hours, yadda yadda yadda, you know the drill."

"What about our delivery van? That on the way yet?"

There was a pause. Somehow it seemed like a _smug_ pause. Even though they couldn't see the Announcer, they just knew it. "The Company has decided to grant you your delivery on the basis of your performance tomorrow. You get what we want, you get what you want, minion. That is all."

The Sniper shrugged and turned to the Spy. "Okay then, I guess we -". But the Announcer had started speaking again.

"Hi, is this the Exotic and High Class Escort Agency? You said that you wouldn't send one with a disease this time. Why, I'm going to sue you to – oh shit. I forgot to turn the blasted thing off." There was a crackle and then silence. The Spy snorted. The Sniper managed to keep a deadpan expression on his face.

"Alright, let's round up the men. You tell the Soldier, Truckie and Hea-" the Sniper remembered about the Spy's black eye and decided it wouldn't be a good idea, "-the Demo. I'll tell Heavy then head on down to the infirmary."

The Spy flashed the Sniper a polite grin. Forced, yes, but still polite. "No problem, Snipes. 'Handling' is my middle name. I am good at handling things...unlike some people."

Snipes felt a lot better that he'd lumped the Spy with the task of getting the Demo off his arse. He swore that the Spy's ivory white grin was the last thing to vanish as he cloaked, just like the Cheshire Cat.

* * *

"Shove your Oktoberfest up your ass, Doc, Woodstock's moving in," laughed the Pyro. The player was blaring "Incense and Peppermints" at an incredible volume and discarded records carpeted the floor. The pair was singing along in a highly artistic _un_harmony. The Heavy was also there, and he'd obviously cheered up. He was making spastic movements that were probably meant to represent the robot dance.

The Doc groaned. He was trying to read, but the cacophony kept making him read the same sentence over and over again. They'd only promised to shut up if he'd give them something better than 'hospital food', and frankly, the Doctor thought their demands were _highly_ unreasonable.

The Medic finally gave up when he heard the Scout starting to sing "Happy Jack" in an exaggerated falsetto voice. In fact, he ran out of the room with his hands clamped over his ears. _The music these hooligans listen to these days. _

**  
**"You know Pyro, you're kinda a better singer with your mask off."

Of course, the Medic soon returned. With a bonesaw. It only took him a few seconds to saw the record player in half. Scout and Pyro protested vehemently.

"Hey man, you gotta pay for that!"

"Nooooooo."

The Pyro started struggling out of bed, his hands aimed for the Medic's neck. Not a clever thing to do to a man who is wielding a blood-splattered serrated weapon. The Medic spared him too much suffering, though. There was a sudden sting and a syringe had embedded itself into his flesh.

Goddammit, that Medic's stealth syringing technique was _good_.

"I believe in traditional medicine, not music therapy!" he laughed.

_A real hoot Doctor. You could have been a comedi..._The Pyro's thoughts abruptly ebbed away as he slipped into unconsciousness. The Heavy chose to use this distraction to time his prompt disappearance from the room.

"Uh, is that going to wear off any time soon? It would be good to have them in fighting order tomorrow. There's going to be another battle." The Medic jumped – he hadn't noticed the Sniper sneaking up behind him. That Aussie had quiet feet.

"I'm afraid that's not possible for the Pyro. He needs one more day of bed rest at least. He was very badly poisoned. I can let him out when I've confirmed that the bloody di-"

"Alright, I don't really need to hear that..." _Damn, I thought mediguns were a panacea. But what would I know. _

"On the plus side, this young man is free to go. He is not sick, apart from his debilitating intellectual deficiency which we will just have to cope with. Just thank the heavens it is not contagious."

"Fan-freakin'-tastic! Will you let me off this thing then?"

"Gladly," said the Doctor, advancing with the sanguine bonesaw in his hand and a sinister gleam in his eye. The Sniper chose to excuse himself. He performed bullet-assisted brain surgery all the time...but for some reason, this doctor just gave him the willies.

* * *

The Spy found the Soldier easily enough. He was the guy who was methodically shooting rockets into a mountain near their base. "I'm trying to spell my name, see?"

"There's no J in Soldier."

"The _winners_ invent the dictionary, and I say-"

"Can you not? I have appointments with other team members, and it would be tres selfish to keep them waiting. Just be ready for duty 9 am sharp, er, Sergeant." The Spy tapped his watch, and the Soldier shouted at the thin air that used to be the Spy - "That's _Sir_ to you!"

He went to the Demo's room next. The door was open a crack so he peered in. The Demo was hunched over in a chair, staring at his copy of _Gibbing for Dummies_ with unfocused eyes. Typical. The Spy didn't even elicit a startled reaction when he uncloaked suddenly next to him. _Or maybe it's because I've been overusing that trick lately._

"Hello, my friend."

The Demo gave a non-committal jerk of the head.

"Don't mind me at all. I'm just here to tell you that's the battle's on at 9 tomorrow."

The Demo sighed. "Ach, what's the use of me coming. I'll be as useful as a dead eel to you."

"We're expecting everyone to turn up."

"No," he mumbled. "I don't wanna screw up the team anymore. I'm no good like this."

"Please, my Scottish friend. If you don't join us you'll cripple the team, not make it better.""

Tears welled in the man's eyes. "I can't..."

The Spy dithered. _I'm a bit reluctant to do this but -_ He pulled his revolver out and smashed the man in the face with the barrel in one fluid motion. The Demo reeled, letting out a squeal of shock and pain. The Spy watched dispassionately as he clutched his nose with both hands.

"You broke my nose, you cu-!"

"You are a craven, spineless, lily-livered, yellow-bellied _coward_."

The Demo stared at the Spy with speechless outrage.

"What? You're not going to hit me back, coward?"

"Oh, that's only one of the things I'm about to do to you," the Demo bellowed, a volcano of blood streaming from his nose. He swung his fist, but the Spy dodged easily. Droplets of blood flew off the Demo's fist and splattered the Spy's suit.

He swung again, but the Spy grabbed the man's arm, tightly. The Demo grunted in surprise and frustration. He tried to move, but the Spy's grip was too strong.

"I'm glad to see that you've manned up. How about you hit the enemies in the field tomorrow instead. Now go see the Doctor to get yourself cleaned up," the Spy said coolly, letting go of the man's arm with the air of someone throwing away a piece of rubbish, and leaving the room.


	6. Midnight Snack

**I see grouse in Aussie slang dictionaries. I think it's hilarious. Who ever uses grouse?**

**I also apologise. All of the ideas for Jarate jokes actually came from my infinitely less cultured boyfriend.**

**

* * *

  
**

**Midnight snack**

He was craving a fag. Really craving a fag. Really really really craving a... _Shut up, unworthy brain_, he told himself. Then again...he was a Spy! What was the point of all that Spy training (which solely encompassed skimming through a 73 cent Mann Co instructional manual, best money he'd ever spent) if he couldn't and didn't get what he wanted?

He stole out of RED base. _Ahh, night. Nature's invisibility cloak. _

Lingering outside BLU base, he considered which stupid BLU he should disguise as. The Heavy was out – if he was anything like theirs, then he'd probably be prowling the place at odd hours to raid the fridge. The Scout was nocturnal because of his caffeine addiction; hence he was a common sight with the Heavy. The Sniper? Non. If he had to dress up as that convict for more than 5 minutes, he felt...just wrong.

Eventually he settled on the BLU Spy. It was convenient – he could cloak in front of their eyes and they wouldn't question him. He gave his cigarette case a couple of taps to pack the tobacco and then remembered. Merde. He resigned himself to sticking a piece of gum between his lips and pretending it was a cigarette.

In an instant he was disguised as the BLU Spy. Ugh, didn't he know that burgundy was the only classy colour for a suit? Not this ugly shade of cornflower blue.

He had to figure out how to get in first. He gave one of the roller doors a test. _Skreeeeeee_. Double merde. Don't those incompetent BLUs oil these things?

He inched it up painfully little at a time. He didn't fully open it. He made a gap just wide enough so he could peek underneath. He didn't see any alarmed feet running towards him, so he slid in on his stomach. Not very dignified for a man in a suit, but he was cloaked anyway. He shut the door behind him, feeling like he was his own gaoler.

The layout of BLU was unfamiliar but he could still figure it out. He'd run around enough in their buildings. _The decor is horrible, but at least they don't live in barnhouses, I give them that_.

He located the kitchen soon enough. "All You Need Is Love" was blasting out of their wireless, and the Spy resisted the urge to smash it against the wall. _Those scruffy 'lads' had absolutely mangled his national anthem_. Predictably, the fat man and the brat were sitting around.

"Hey spooksie wooksie, can't sleep tonight?" Wait, was the BLU Scout addressing him? He chose not to dignify that with a response. Being silent was probably in character, anyway.

"We're burning midnight oil," said the BLU Heavy in his stiff Russian accent. He grinned, like it was somehow funny. Well, his accent was funny, as was his face, but that was about it. The Spy didn't bother to tell the man that the Scout had stuck a "KICK ME" note on his back. He didn't even try a kick, even though he was sorely tempted.

He opened the fridge door nonchalantly and gave the contents a curious look over. Sandvich. Why not. He grabbed it, utilising his awesome sleight of hand skills, and stuffed it into his pocket. He'd probably regret the mayo stains tomorrow. He also saw Blu Streak Beer, Bonk, and very little in the way of food other than that. He closed his gloved hand around the Bonk.

Suddenly the Scout was in his face. "Uh uh uh, Jean Pierre. I just heard fizzy drink slosh against metal can." _How the hell did he hear that? It was inexplicable. Could come in the Scout's job description._

"I don't want your disgusting drink. I was just shifting it." He'd remembered that the BLU Spy had one of those lower class, brutish French accents like you heard on country hicks and peasants, and had adjusted it accordingly. It fooled the Scout and Heavy, but that didn't say much.

"Well...don't put your dirty fingers on it anyway. You'll put your French germs on it." The Scout shadowboxed a few times. The Spy slammed the door shut and decided to prissily stalk away.

He needed good quality tobacco, not to converse with these unwashed pigs. Now, if he was BLU Spy, where would he keep his cigarette case? In his jacket, he guessed. Time to do a little switcheroo.

Invisible, he wafted like the only breath of fresh air in this horrible base. Finally, he discovered the BLU Spy sleeping in one of the rooms. _Aww, he looks so peaceful. I wouldn't want to disturb his beauty sleep so I'll just grab what I want. I'm considerate like that._

The blazer was, luckily, hung up neatly on a coat hanger. He stuck his hand in the inside pocket. Pay dirt.

Suddenly, klaxons went off and the RED Spy died inside.

"That imbecilic labourer didn't have to make them so loud," the BLU Spy muttered, stirring from the bed. Then he noticed the RED Spy before the RED had time to tap his cloaking watch.

"Mon dieu! SPYYYY! Spy is in the base!"

He heard the sounds of footsteps. The BLU sprang up to block the only door.

Both Spies simultaneously flipped their butterfly knives and assumed fencing stances.

"I see you've learned a fancy move with your knife," said RED Spy. BLU Spy didn't laugh.

"The...the nerve of breaking a ceasefire..."

"Can I get a last smoke before I die, at least?"

"En garde!"

The dysfunctional gang had arrived. They watched the Spies circling each other. And circling each other. And circling each other. Stab. Parry. Stab. Parry.

"It's like watching parallel dimensions or something," whispered the Scout.

"ALRIGHT! Which one should I shoot!" The Soldier switched the aim of his shotgun from one to the other, confused.

Both Spies froze. "Don't shoot me! Shoot HIM!" they yelled simultaneously.

"Mmff mmm mff."

"Yeah, but then _we'd _be down a Spy as well."

"Mmww."

"Can't you see that he's wearing paper for his face?"

"He's not wearing a jacket and I am, that proves I am your BLU Spy!"

"SHUT UP MAGGOTS! Let me hear myself think!"

There was a 3 minute pause as Soldier tried to scratch his head, realised that there was a helmet blocking his fingers, and resigned to scratching his chin instead.

"I'VE GOT IT! YOU REEKA! We should have a quiz show! Ask 'em our birthdays and stuff."

"I never remember your birthdays normally," said the BLU Spy, rolling his eyes.

There was a shotgun blast. BLU Spy let out a shrill scream and dropped to the floor. The blast tore a handful of bullet holes in the nicely wallpapered wall where the BLU's head was half a second ago.

"Ahh, I knew he was the intruder!"

"IMBECILE! STOP THAT! THE RED IS GETTING AWAY!"

"Well, he calls me imbecile. He's probably the Spy after all," said Soldier, pausing to rub his chin stubble.

"Everyone calls you that, it's your bloody nickname," said BLU Sniper. "By the way, I think the spook is right, he's gotten away," he said in a greatly dispassionate voice. He hated RED Spy, but he also wanted to get back to sleep. "Wake me up in the morning. Without the klaxons." He stomped away.

The others just ran around the room, whacking thin air with their melee weapons. They didn't get the RED Spy, as he was long gone, but a lot of BLU Spy's possessions were inadvertently smashed up that night.

The Spy had made it safely back, against all odds, against God's will. Even if he hadn't gotten much out of the whole exercise, he was at least safe from shotgun wielding maniacs and knife duels. He triumphantly slinked into the RED base, releasing the breath he'd been holding for that intense half hour. A good Spy always made it look like a piece of cake.

SPLASH. Suddenly, he was coated in a sopping, dripping, wet, smelly...

"ARRRRRRGH!"

Sniper was standing there, that fathead, clutching an empty Jarate jar. "Insubordination, I see." He didn't say it smugly or gleefully. He just said it matter of factly.

"INSUBOR- What that hell is this, high school? Are you out of your tiny little Australian MIND?" the Spy bellowed.

"Stealing your durries, were you?"

"I. Didn't. Get. Any. Durries," snarled the Spy. "And I didn't kill any of them, so I didn't break the ceasefire. Didn't stop _them_ from trying to break it. Now fuck off and let me sleep."

He tried activating his invisibility watch, realised that the Jarate had shorted it out, and stormed away instead. _Stylish exit, Spy. Real display of finesse._


	7. Day 5

**Some people may ask, why didn't the Sniper throw the whole jar instead of just the liquid? That question comes within your purview of conundrums of philosophy, but I conjecture that he didn't want to clean up broken glass **_**as well**_ **as the liquid.**

**

* * *

**

**Day Five**

"_I've got Friday on my mind."_

The RED Soldier had his groove on today, brandishing the pointer stick at a large map of the RED and BLU territories and generally being as incoherent as possible as he articulated his latest strategy.

"Can you give us the 25 words or less version?" the Scout said flatly. The Sniper had noticed a dip in his energy. He'd been rubbing his arms and muttering darkly about the Doc 'cutting into my bones' all breakfast. _He's also been strapped to the Doc's bed-o-pain for, Christ, three days, no wonder he's feeling crook..._

In fact, the news about the delivery van had the opposite affect he'd hoped. Instead of pasting smiles on their faces, it just made them pissed at the manipulative old bag _and_ at the message carrier (aka the Sniper).

The Soldier poked his finger into the boy's chest. "You, offense. So get the power plant control point. Of course, wait for the Medic to ubercharge yours truly so we can clear out the sentry nest!" The Soldier loved to make himself the recipient of ubers. It was the only time he (conveniently) forgot that the Medic was a damn kraut.

_Good. This means he wouldn't be rocket jumping around like a maniac. Accidental amputations happen when Digger tries to precision jump, and the Doc doesn't need extra help._

"Pretty self explanatory, kid," said the Engineer. "What are we gonna do about their uber against _my_ sentry? The dang Pyro got himself bedridden, so we don't have a compression blast."

"The Demoman will have to handle uber separation tactics today! And no complaining, maggot!" Spit peppered the Demo's face and he glowered. They usually gave the sentry blowing-upping job to the Demo and he strongly felt (to put it in nice terms) that the Soldier had usurped his position. But with him being ten kinds of pissed right now, and drunkeness not being one of them, neither Sniper nor anyone else trusted him with this important task.

At least his broken nose had been medigunned away before the battle.

"Hey man, pass out some of that gum," said the Scout, snatching the gum from the Spy.

"Give that back!" the Spy hissed, his voice so venomous that the Scout meekly complied. The spy unwrapped another three pieces of gum, shoved them into his mouth, and chewed like each piece had personally done him a wrong. _How can a Spy work in these...uncivilised conditions? _he thought miserably. _My nerves are, as the brat would say, freakin' shot._

"I didn't want your gum anyway. You're smelly. Like that 'oh dee co-loan' stuff." The Spy shuddered involuntarily.

_This group is so bloody glum, _the Sniper thought_. I hope this won't affect our performance. We can be the stupidest team in the world, but we shape up when we go all professional. I still guess I could give cheering them up a shot._

He straightened his trusty felt Akubra. "Alright team, I say let's give this a good go. Afterwards we can have a bonzer party. Bonk and Scrumpy raining from the ceiling and all that."

_Eh. The speech wasn't too inspiring. Then again, Soldier says that anyone who says good speeches is Hitler._

"That's the spirit, Snipes!" roared the Soldier. Everyone edged away from the Saliva Factory. Or SF for short. Soldier liked to think that stood for Soldier of Fortune.

"I do hope there won't be _anything else_ raining down from the ceiling at the party," said Spy, giving Sniper a withering stare that would have killed lesser mortals.

Suddenly, the phone rang. They'd all forgotten they even had a phone in the Battle Room. Or that telephone wires reached this base at all. All the communication they ever had was the disembodied voice of the Announcer screaming their eardrums raw. They all stared at it the vibrating black receiver until the Sniper decided to take the initiative and pick it up.

"Hello?..._Dad_? How on earth did you get this number?..."

Everyone else started holding their sides with laughter. _Oh for crying out loud. Of all times the reloes had to call. Gah. Ngggh. Arrgh._

"_Mission begins in ten seconds."_

"I'm a little busy right now dad, so I'm going to have to call you b- Chrissakes, we've been over this-"

Meanwhile the Pyro waddled up to the group as the countdown started, fully suited. He was bored with looking at the Medic's old copies of _Spiel Boy_ and _Penthaus_ (he'd given _Heiß Gewachst Bayerische Männer _a miss, though). He wanted _action_.

"M'm mmkmm."

"No you're not, get back in bed!" The Medic approached the Pyro warily. His syringes didn't work so well against the asbestos suit, and the Pyro was clutching a flamethrower defensively.

"_Five."_

The Engie, Spy and Demo, and especially the Spy, were giggling at the Sniper, who was growing increasingly flustered.

"What kind of shade of red would you call his face? Scarlet?"

"More like magenta. I painted my bedroom at home that. Nice cheery colour."

"_Four."_

"Shut up you Stooges. No, I wasn't talking to you, dad..."

"_Three."_

"Don't have a cow, Mao, you can burn people at the next battle. I promise, man." The Scout held out his hand for a high five. The Pyro reluctantly slapped it.

"_Two."_

"Up high." Slap. "Down low." Slap. "Both hands." Slap. "From behind." Slap. "Diagonally." Slap.

"Can you quit it, Abbott and Costello?! The countdown's over!"

"Oh. Right you are, Hard Hat." The Scout tore away. "BONK! This is for my Bonk!"

Simultaneously, the Sniper slammed the receiver down mid-sentence and started pelting away to his position.


End file.
